


The Devil Is In The Permissioning

by karanguni



Category: Time Team RPF
Genre: English Heritage, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Poor Geophys, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karanguni/pseuds/karanguni
Summary: 'So we're all going to be cursed, is that it?' Tony jokes, hoping to break up the tension.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Devil Is In The Permissioning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phantomlistener](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomlistener/gifts).



> I couldn't resist the call of your prompt. Happy Yuletide!

It's Day 0, they're in Cheshire, and it is bucketing down rain because of course it is.

Fortunately for all involved, the crew's managed to get them off the motorway and into the carpark of the little bed and breakfast that is going to serve as their incident HQ. For that, Tony is very grateful as he clutches a folio of production notes to his chest and legs it from the transit van to the door.

After some banging about getting their rooms sorted, the team convenes in the dining room for an early dinner to go over plans for tomorrow.

'Looks like another Roman villa, eh?' quips Phil, mouth half-full of chicken.

'Yeah,' Tony agrees, trying not to be a bit grumpy about it. _Another_ Roman villa, indeed – they were always doing these on the show. Dig a hole anywhere in England and you'll hit _Roman Villa_ half of the time. 'Though it says here that we're looking at a possible connection with the Chester amphitheatre. What's that about?'

Carenza, sipping a mug of hot tea, looks ponderous. 'Well, Chester was originally founded as a Roman fort...'

'Yes, yup, as the Deva Victrix. She was done up during the reign of Vespasian,' Mick nods, rustling his papers about. 'There aren't too many villas that've been found in the northwest, really; just the one at Eaton-by-Tarporley, I think. Yes, here it is in my notes. Excavated in 1980-81.'

'So it _isn't_ just another Roman villa, it's one of the only ones in northwest?' Tony asks, hopeful.

'If it makes you feel better to spin it that way for the telly,' Mick laughs, 'sure.'

'Not just another Roman villa,' Tony pronounces with relish. 'I like how that sounds...'

* * *

It is still very damp when they wake up ere the crack of dawn the next day. Tony stomps downstairs in search of something hot and strong to drink only to find Geophysics looking glum but determined in the hall.

'All bundled up against the wet?' Tony asks cheerfully, seeing their van getting loaded up through the gap in the front door. The team is all in their anoraks and boots, ready to make the sacrifice of their personal comfort for the furthering of British archaeology. Good lads. They rumble off with only minor scowling.

'You shouldn't be mean to geophysics,' chides Carenza chides as Tony gets into the breakfast area proper, going straight for the seat closest to the bacon. Tony gives her a knowing look. While Carenza is kind to the Men Who Plod, she has her own little crew of diggers and university students to do her bidding, and she _knows_ it. Carenza simply smiles back.

''Course we should be mean to geophys,' Phil butts in, plonking himself down at the table. He's wearing denim shorts, oblivious - or impervious - to the chill. 'That's our job, bein' mean to geophys so that they work faster to let us get to the good bits.'

'And _that_ is why I'm going in for dendrology,' Mick the Dig mutters as he passes by the table, a ship in the morning fog.

'One day we will have robots,' sulks Stewart from far down the table; he gets to stay in the warm a little longer than his Geophys minions. 'Robots that fly, and that spy, and that drop eggs on people.'

'Ah,' Phil laughs, eyes a-twinkle. 'But then you'll be out of a job, eh?'

Stewart looks at his eggs and soldiers as if contemplating sending them to war against Phil.

'All right,' Mick says, arriving at the table with the crew looming threateningly with their cameras behind him. He flaps the large-print production papers at them. 'Time to get to work. Everyone not pretty enough for the lens, shoo!'

If Tony likes one thing about this show, it's that the viewers seem to _enjoy_ the fact that the team always looks a little bit sleepy and bedraggled in the morning. No make-up calls – hurrah. They're all equally ugly this way.

'So, Mick,' he says once his microphone's been clipped on. 'What've we got?'

* * *

'What we've got is _bloody massive,_ ' Phil says later on-site, squinting at Geophysics' readings.

There are a lot – usually Stewart only comes to them with one or two pages, zoomed out if needs must since otherwise Film Crew get irritable, but today he's got five printouts and looks like an excited, if wet, dog.

'It is, look,' Stewart points out the outlines with his pen. 'It's almost unbelievable – the readings are some of the clearest we've ever seen, and the villa complex looks, dare I say, nearly intact.'

'It's incredible!' Phil declares, astonished. 'Mick, whaddaya think about this?'

'Don't know where to even start,' Mick admits, just as flabbergasted. 'We've never had scans so clear before.' The resistance readings look practically like blueprints, with clearly legible outlines of walls and rooms and hallways. 'Okay, well, got to crawl before we can walk – let's have a few trenches here, here, and here.' He circles the spots in question.

'Why those locations?' Tony asks for the sake of the show's viewers. And, well, for himself, too - this could prove to be pretty dang exciting.

'Well,' Mick explains, 'we want to take a look at some of the outer walls in trench one, and then at the clearly defined inner rooms here in trench two. Trench three we'll put in this unusual square room in the centre right here –' he taps his finger against the printout. 'That's an unusual feature for a Roman villa, so we'll try to find out what was going on there.'

'All right,' Tony claps his hands together, rubbing them against the cold but also with some glee as he gazes right into the camera lens. 'We've got our work cut out for us here in Chester – and we've only got three days to do it.'

* * *

Day 1 is finally warming up, and the anoraks are coming off at the three trench sites. Geophys are buzzing about the field like excitable insects, getting more readings on everything. Close to noon, Tony removes himself from the site to head back to the B&B for some interviews with those of the team who have softer hands. 'John!' he proclaims, sliding into frame with their Roman specialist in his neat jumper. 'What progress have you made on figuring out what the square room might be for?'

'Well,' Guy de la Bédoyère smiles, a bit self-deprecatingly. 'I know you won't like this, Tony, but based on its central position in the villa and the very unusual shape and it having entrances on all four walls, my current best guess at the moment is that it was a –'

'Ritual space?' Tony groans at the same time that John says it.

'Right,' Guy laughs. 'Here are a few similar examples from other sites...'

* * *

'So, Phil,' Tony asks yet later in the afternoon, peeking into Trench 3. It's come along fantastically – the walls are well-defined, and Phil's scraping madly with some of his finer tools at the floor. 'Ritual space, is that what this is?'

'Dunno, Tony, but look here – mosaic tiles,' Phil points out. 'We're just gettin' to them now.'

'Mosaics?' Tony asks, _very_ interested now. 'How complete are they?'

'Well, from what we've uncovered so far, it looks pretty good.' Phil scrapes along madly but carefully, and more tiles begin to show: white and black only at first, but then some sections of red patterning start to emerge and Tony's having to fight Film Crew to get close enough to get the sort of look he wants.

'Carenza and Mick, Tony,' Phil says after a few more minutes, leaning back and taking a look at what they've uncovered. 'Go get 'em, quick.'

Tony legs it.

Everyone gets summoned and a small army ends up gathered around the floor mosaic. Mick's rubbing at his chin, his bright yellow sweater taking nothing away from the expression of deep thought on his face. Carenza's in the pit as well, now, clearing away more of the pattern.

'It's, uh...' Tony starts as Carenza brushes back the dirt that'd been covering some very extravagant horns on what really looks to him like a devil's head.

They all pause.

'Fascinating,' Guy breaks the silence, a touch strangled. 'Horrible, but fascinating.'

'Roman, by any chance?' Tony asks weakly. Mick gives him a _look_.

'Are these sigils somming special?' Phil asks, pointing out the symbols on the perimeter of the circular mosaic. 'Maybe some form of rare cult worship?'

'Cult worship that looks like something out of a horror movie?' Tony asks. 'I'd love to see _this_ in textbooks; I would've paid a lot more attention.'

'I've never seen anything like it,' John admits. 'Not in all my time looking at Roman symbology, anyway, and this _is_ my period...'

Another unsettling silence falls over them. There is, Tony knows, the combined knowledge of hundreds of years between everyone on-site, so for no one to even begin to guess why they've uncovered something that looks like a piece of demonology is unnerving.

'So we're all going to be cursed, is that it?' Tony jokes, hoping to break the tension up. 'Never had a cursed site before, but there's always a –'

The skies, which had been overcast but lightening, suddenly darken ominously. The air gets thick, warm and wet for an instant, then everything goes very, very cold as lightning crashes down all around them. Before anyone can react, thunder erupts in a cacophony right above their heads, ear-splitting and bone-shaking in its nearness.

' – first time?' Tony squeaks, his ears still ringing.

The eyes on the devil mosaic start to glow.

'Oh, bugger,' Tony declares as the cameramen zoom in on it from behind him. 'Yeah, that's definitely cursed.'

Then, before anyone can say anything else equally asinine, someone from Geophysics who had been hanging around out of camera range takes a swing at one of the diggers.

'You think walking across fields is easy work, you hole-digging idiot?' the woman - a soft-spoken doctoral candidate who's been on at least five digs with them and who's always been the very soul of good manners - screams. 'I WENT TO SCHOOL FOR THREE YEARS TO LEARN HOW TO DO THIS!'

'Yeah?' the digger yells back, hefting up a shovel. 'WELL, TRY MOVING TWO TONNES OF DIRT A DAY ON FOR SIZE!'

* * *

The madness seems to take them all a bit unequally. Tony'd stolen one of the hand cameras to record what he fears might be the last day of his life: Phil had tackled the digger and Carenza had taken out the woman from geophys, and they'd just got the two of them tied up securely when Mick had roared past them on the site-use golf cart shouting something in what Tony could only assume was an eldritch tongue. That, in turn, had set Phil off using his hat as a sort of boomerang to attack people.

Film Crew had been next: their sound man swung the boom at the director. Then it'd been Guy - dignified, noble Guy - who'd stolen one of the field bicycles and gone round in circles about the trench, offering up more eldritch prayers and making it glow like a malfunctioning traffic light.

'Get off the bicycle, Guy,' Carenza'd pleaded with him.

'I shall not get off the bicycle,' Guy'd said smartly. 'Now, repeat after me: R̵͎͚͔̣̐̓̚͜ő̶̡̫̤̖͚̙̿͜m̶̭̯͗͜͜a̸̮͇̬̎͂͛͝n̶̩̱͌̄͛͘͠ ̶̟͈̣̳͖̃̇͠h̴͚͇͉̟͐̽̃́̕ͅĩ̸̛͕͖̗̣̌̉̎̊̂s̵̳͍̮͚̠̗̾̀̓t̵̳̯̘̞̼͑̓̄̆͝ơ̶̟̂͛̈́̑ŗ̸̪̪͖̘̰̳̏̊̈̒̍͠y̸̲͂̊̾ͅ ̸̧̦̳̘̀i̶͈͒͛̃̚s̴͇̱ ̶̡̻̀̊̒̓̓͐f̴̳͕͇̟͂u̴̖͕͌̃͝n̶̥̞̰͍̒̀͛̉͐͘.̵̧͕̫͑̔̂̆̋̇'

Even Carenza couldn't outrun a bicycle that'd held together through over 30 sites: she'd gone down and then come up with her face painted with streaks of mud, worshipping the devil with Guy in an uncannily well-timed chanted canon.

Then catering'd thrown a sandwich at Tony's head, which is something they've always threatened to do but had never, ever acted on, and so Tony'd run for his life. Last he'd seen of anyone had been Victor, sketching the mayhem and pencilling in glowing symbols on his pad.

'How are we going to unmake this devil circle?' Tony pants into the camera, running like a bat out of (literal) hell towards where all the crew vehicles are parked. 'Find out after the break? Oh, god help us –'

'Tony?' comes a voice. It even sounds sane.

'Tim?' Tony asks, stunned to a stop for a moment as he sees a dapper suited gentleman get out of a tidy little sedan. It seems so bloody incongruous, but hell, English Heritage _had_ been called earlier in the day and they'd been expecting Tim, their EH contact, to show up any time now. 'Is that you?'

The man furrows his brow. 'What's going on?'

Tony puts his hands on his knees and pants, glad for an unpossessed ally. 'We've... been cursed?'

Tim of English Heritage looks heavenwards. 'Ah, fuck.'

Tony stares at him. 'What?' He hadn't expected to be _believed._

'Come on, let me go take a look,' Tim says, striding towards the trenches.

'You've got to be mad!' Tony stares at him, following along helplessly because he doesn't want to be alone. 'Or you'll _be_ mad soon enough if you go over there.'

But Tim doesn't seem to care; seems to know exactly where to go, in fact. 'It'll be fine,' he says.

Tony nearly howls. 'It will _not_ be fine!'

' **I̵̡̡̠͉̳̕͜Ṱ̵͇̥̹̜̒̔̒͛̄́ ̴͖̹̰̤͕̪̉̄́̈́͒W̶̧̦̦͔̎I̶̮̳̫͔͔̔̽̆̚͝L̸͍̍L̷̤͝ ̸͎̞̗͕̙͔̙̒̄̄B̴͎̦̜̞̬̈́̽͊E̸͉̺̘͒͐͐͛ ̸̣̈́̍͑̚͜F̶̈́̀̓͒̔̄ͅİ̶̢̤̰̙̊͊͝Ñ̸̜͎͌̓̈́̂̈́Ę̷̪̥̖͚͎͎̊̎̊̕** ,' Tim intones.

'Eep,' goes Tony, ceasing to protest.

They get to Trench 3. Tony tries very hard not to notice a minor orgy happening near the hedge line. At least no one seems to have been completely mauled or killed. Yet, anyway.

Tim strides right into the trench and stands in the centre of the mosaic circle.

**'Ş̶̨̛̘͇̩͎̱̥͈̝͂̉̆̾̈̈́̊͊͋̈́̎̽̄͘T̵̡̝̣͉͓̒̉̉̅͑̎͐̃̓̍̽̕̚Ǫ̷͚̜̹̗̱͍̠̼̭̈́̃P̷̨̛̮͍̹̬̦̯̰͖̪͔̗͉̞̙̂̊̃̔̿͌̃̽̆̈́͒͝!'**

Tim's voice like the sound of a thousand other voices, like the culmination of millennia, like the devil and all of the angels. The circle glows fiercely under him, the mosaic tiles projecting pinpoint lances of light up towards the sky.

Everyone freezes in place. Tony, cowering with his camera, realises after a moment that they're _literally_ frozen: a ginger prod of a finger applied to the person nearest to him produces no reaction. Every manic facial expression, every horrific smile, every vacant stare is fixed and unmoving.

'That's much better,' Tim says, tugging his jacket down as he walks out of the circle. 'Hand me that mattock there, Tony, if you please.'

Tony, too shocked by the events of the day to do much of anything but comply, hands the mattock over. Still, when Tim starts hacking up the mosaic, he blurts out, 'Hey! Shouldn't we take a moment to evaluate things a little before we start smashing it all up?'

Tim, a little muddy already, looks up with arched eyebrows. 'Do you think this is _English_ heritage we're standing on?'

Tony swallows. 'No.'

Tim nods at another mattock. 'Then stop asking so many questions and lend us a hand.'

They bash up the circle. It feels sacrilegious on at least three levels. Tony sneaks looks at Tim the whole time, but Tim doesn't say anything until it's all done.

'Can't ever rely on the help to bury evidence,' he grumbles as he kicks the debris they've generated about. With a snap of Tim's fingers, the remnants turn to sulphuric smelling ash; the wind takes and scatters it.

'Come again?' Tony asks, still feeling very boggled.

Tim turns to look at him. 'How many times has your team called English Heritage the devil to work with?'

'Rather a lot,' Tony admits, and then realises the implication behind the question. ' _No,_ ' he breathes, looking Tim up and down. 'You're a demon? You're all demons?'

'The correct terminology is ⻿⻿⻿,' Tim says, his mouth and vocal cords forming phonemes that defy Tony's eardrums to hear. 'Not _everyone_ in English Heritage is, but let's just say we used to be a lot less careful about what evil sigils or cursed landmarks and whatnot we left about the landscape, having trusted in time and the elements to wash them away. Then you humans invented archaeology, and we've had to get cleanup crews in so that we're not doing things like blowing up all of Cheshire accidentally.'

Tony works his jaw. 'Was this going to blow up all of Chesire?'

'Now _that_ would be telling,' Tim says, face straight.

Tony decides to let one go and looks around the place. 'What now, then? This is a mess.'

Tim sighs. 'It is, isn't it? Head office won't be happy with it if I let it go on. I'll make it all right for you – no one will remember a thing.'

'You're not going to kill us?' Tony asks. He wants to be shocked and afraid, but he's rather run down his quotient for the day. Best to just forge on with a stiff upper lip.

'What?' Tim blinks. 'No, we're not _barbarians._ Our work these days requires a lot less painstaking human sacrifice – which was dreadfully inefficient – and more terribly designed motorways and, in my particular field, confounding remains that only have "ritual" explanations accompanied by all sorts of prohibitions against excavation work. No, you'll be all right. Good thing it was all neatly contained.'

'O-kay,' Tony says slowly. 'Because I'd like not to die, speaking for myself.'

'I'd like that as well,' Tim beams. 'Time Team's been great fun to work with. Mick gets very mad when I don't let him dig where he wants.' He pats Tony on the shoulder; it's feels like someone holding a rock concert over his grave. 'Now close your eyes.'

Tony closes them.

He sees a red glow from behind his eyelids, and then it all goes dark.

* * *

'So Phil,' Tony asks, feeling oddly winded even though it's only three in the afternoon on Day 1. He looks into the trench. 'Ritual space, is that what we've got – oh _my_.'

Phil, dusting brush in hand and a manic grin on his face, looks down at the mosaic he's uncovered. 'Guess you could say it's ritualistic, Tony,' he says, voice bubbling over with laughter.

'That's an amazing mosaic,' Tony says, trying to keep it together for the film's sake. 'Are those, um, flecks of – um – what's that glowing white stuff? Pearl?'

'Can't say just yet,' Phil says, stepping back so that the cameras can get a full view of the _obscene_ picture the mosaic is painting. Flecks of pearl _indeed._ 'Gotta have the - the specialists take a look, but –' his lips keep trembling '– I think I can take a guess as to what this room might've been for, oh lordy.'

Tony gets the attention of the crew. 'After the break,' he declares solemnly, 'join us as we try to find out if Roman villas ever had sybaritic pleasure rooms. Probably won't be allowed to attempt a reenactment, though –'

And then he's breaking down laughing, and everyone else is too. Tony loves the work he does; bless this job. A shiver runs down his spine.

'Oi,' Tony hears Phil ask over the raucous laughter of the team. 'Has anyone seen my hat?'

'TONY,' someone else from Film Crew is screaming. 'WHAT DID YOU DO TO THIS HANDCAM?'

Just another day on Time Team.


End file.
